


Childhood stories

by Shackett74



Series: Childhood stories [1]
Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Gen, POV First Person, Steven Hackett - background, Steven Hackett before Juvenile Academy, Steven Hackett's childhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:49:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26773921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shackett74/pseuds/Shackett74
Summary: A glimpse from ten year old Steven Hackett's life through his mother's eyes. First person perspective."Childhood stories" are intended to be a series of one fic-glimpses into Steven Hackett’s childhood and adolescence.
Series: Childhood stories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951849
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3
Collections: MEFFW Fictober 2020





	Childhood stories

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I've wanted to write for a long time now. As a matter of fact the very first fic I wrote was about his childhood.

Buenos Aires, 2144

The humid summer afternoon is warm and sunny, as is often the case this time of year. I've come home late today, feeling a bit tired with knees and calves swollen after standing and walking most of the day. I took an extra shift, just a few more hours of quick house cleaning since it was nearby, and Steven could stay with his grandpa. But he’s already home, upstairs and probably reading about space. Hopefully my father haven’t been too tough on him, commenting this or that about his dead English father and heritage again.

Or, for that matter, about Steven’s obsession with anything space-related.

"Hola niño, how’s your day been? Everything’s gone well at grandpa’s?" I call up to him in castellan Spanish and enter the kitchen to make dinner for us, and perhaps dreading his answer just a tad. 

There's usually not any problem with my father taking care of Steven half a day or so, and I’m very thankful for having him to help me out when I need to work late or take an occasional extra shift. But there _have_ been times more recently when dad’s dementia have become more evident and he disappears into hazy, dark memories where he becomes loathing about foreigners and especially everything English. It's gotten worse since mother died two years ago, too. 

“It’s fine mama, grandpa told me stories from Argentina’s history today” He calls out, still upstairs, with such innocence to his voice. My son loves history but ever since we saw a program about space with its colorful images of star systems, and especially that nebula 'the three pillars of life', he's been completely absorbed by space.

That was eighteen months ago now albeit I still remember it as yesterday, how my beautiful son looked up at me with his ice kissed blue eyes solemn and determined, and gravely exclaimed to me "I'm gonna be a space explorer, mama."

"Okay" I had simply said and stroked his slender jaw and firm little chin gently. What was I supposed to say anyway when children's future dreams often is swift and changing. Steven's too, it wasn't that long ago he wanted to be a veterinarian after some friends and he had rescued an injured bird from a park.

But this time there had been a brightness in his eyes as if a fraction of that starlight had reflected back in his large, light blue eyes, his most evident legacy from his father, beside his name. And ever since that, my boy, always so eager for knowledge, had been reading and reading about space and our solar system, watching every new finding on Mars on TV and putting up posters of stars and nebulae on the walls of his room.

I may not be entirely surprised over his devoted curiosity as he has that from both me and his dead father but his father's inclination to sciences. From my side he's got the stubbornness.

Now, one and a half year later, he still engulf everything about space that he can lay his hands on, and I even have to remind him to do his homework at least once every week. 

But it's hard not to feel a warm tug inside at his determination and innocence as I'm standing by our old gas stove making soup for us, no matter how much I wish I could just sit down, or even better lay down for a short while and rest my legs and feet high. I save every extra credit I make for his coming tuition fees at the Juvenile Academy, something I have done for several years now, just hoping it in the end will be enough for him to attend the space program he dreams of. 

He do keep on about going to the Academy every now and then, and yes he is certainly stubborn even without my own family trait, as every kid is in that age I suppose. Whenever those situations arise I'm purposely vague since I want it to be a surprise when he turns twelve. But I don't know, maybe I should tell him earlier?

"Mama...Mama!?" the eager voice upstairs interrupts my contemplation. 

"¿Sí, mi niño?"

"Did you know that the Kepler satellite discovered thousands of stars orbiting unknown suns even if it only focused on two percent of the night sky!?"

Steven tells me in English, which is good and something I encourage him to do. His castellan Spanish comes fluently of course, it's his English that still need some practice. On the other hand he does it willingly and I think it is because it reminds him of his father whom he unfortunately never got to meet. 

"No, Steven, I didn't," and it hits me again how alike this educated, precocious boy is his father and no matter how tiredI might be, I'll never tire of our little games where I'm now supposed to ask a follow-up question.

"Dinner is almost ready so why don't you come down and tell me more about this Kepler and why it's extraordinary?"

"Sí, mama," and I hear him sprint swiftly down the stairs, so full of energy every single time he stops reading, then a pair of radiant eyes peer at me around the corner between the kitchen and hallway, his brown hair hanging down to his eyes and a mischievous smile plays at his lips.

"Pickaboo" he laughs and run forward to embrace my waist in a firm hug with his sleek, warm body. Where he's gotten that expression from I don't have a clue, but it's certainly not Castellan, probably English.

He's almost ten now and seem to grow taller by the day, and so is his hair apparently I conclude a bit absently, stirring in the soup with with one hand gripping the ladle and holding him next to me with the other, kissing his forehead. 

It does something to have one's child snuggle in like that, doesn't it?  
For me it certainly do at least, and I cherish every single one of those moments like pieces of warm honey gold in my heart's treasure chest - the scent of his hair when I place a tender kiss on top his head or the unconditional love and trust in his eyes as he looks up at me. 

For him I will do everything, give him the chances I never got having to quit the nursing school when his father suddenly died. Only a few weeks later I found out I was pregnant by the way, a blessing in the midst of all the sorrow and tragedy. 

Of that I say nothing of course, but simply give him two bowls and spoons to put on the table. "I think it's time for a haircut after dinner" and he groans out his protest. "Noo, mama." 

"Steven Diego Hackett Ortiz, don't you argue with me", I say and try hard not to show my smile peering out behind what I hope is a stern motherly look down at my whining son. 

"I'm sorry" he says flatly, trying not to show that he's grumpy because he knows that the haircut will take some time, time he can't use to read or play, since my fingers are growing increasingly clumsy from joint pain and making it more difficult to hold the scissors. But I won't spend precious credits on a hairdresser, so if he has to spend an hour being still while I fix his hair, so be it. 

As we sit down to eat there's a sudden, careful knock on the door, and fast as a whirlwind Steven runs to see who it is, returning with a boy in tow. 

It's one of his closest friends, Andreano - who is hungry, I can tell from the lingering looks on our bowls. The boy's small family might have even less to live off than we do, and I know that he goes hungry sometimes. 

But not under my roof, not as long as there are at least some scraps of food in this house will I let any of Steven's friends go hungry when they're here.

"Sit, Andreano" I order gently and interrupt the boys immediate chit chatting. Steven doesn't notice his friend's quick and grateful glance at me as I put another bowl and spoon before the brown eyed, timid boy. The soup might not be much if Andreano is really hungry, but soup and a slice of bread is better than nothing. 

Afterward both brown haired boys are eager to get out and play football, I can tell it from their jittery legs underneath the table and the looks at each other, so I let them leave the table, with comfortably full bellies and two happy grins on each of their faces. 

Smiling too, I guess the haircut will have to wait for another day.


End file.
